by Vance Huxley
“Not for a long time. Meanwhile we have gained more weapons and ammunition for when they do. We’d better get down there to welcome the conquering heroes home.”
“Oh yes, but they won’t want us old fogies at the dancing.” Celeste looked a little bit shy. “I still have an unopened half-bottle of Riesling if you want to share? To celebrate.”
“That would be lovely, Celeste.” The professor turned to the trebuchet crew. “Well done. You can stand down now except for the lookouts. No lectures until tomorrow!” The crew cheered.
The professor walked down the stairs from the roof deep in thought. The move from the University had been a frantic scramble, as had initially fortifying the block of flats, the shops beneath and the car park. Now the last of the neighbours had been taught to leave them alone, which gave their enclave a breather. The remaining tutors would keep educational classes going, despite the demands of gardening and scavenging. When this nightmare ended he wanted his students to be ready for whatever followed, with an education and a decent set of morals. Though first they all had to survive so he must swallow his distaste and meet with the defeated gang to agree the borders.
* * *
Across the ruined city, seven miles south, a small group of young men ducked and ran away from a canal as shots rang out behind them. “Will the bridge go down?”
The short, slightly built youth in the front laughed as he swerved into a derelict warehouse. “Oh yes, as soon as enough of the twats get on there. Stop here and shoot at them, bunch the fuckers up. Then they’ll bring up something to give them cover crossing the bridge.” He grinned at the rest. “Let a few across before that, so we can collect the weapons from the bodies.”
“Are you sure?” One of the others flinched from the glare. “All right Skipper, just saying, right?”
Another youth with a long-barrelled pistol topped by telescopic sights waved the gun. “Good idea, about the weapons. This is OK but at least one of them has a long gun, a rifle or shotgun.”
“See, Smiler’s got the idea. Don’t worry, the bridge will go. Spread out inside here and shoot at the ones this side to encourage more to cross.” The eight men crouched or stood behind the walls of the derelict building, shooting through the gaps. The men pursuing them scattered into cover and called out frantically for help. A few men ran across the bridge to join them before opening up on Skipper and his crew.
The return fire bit into brickwork and whined off concrete, while the shooting from Skipper’s men made the bridge impassable. The stalemate didn’t favour the attackers pinned against the canal, still calling back across the bridge for help. An engine started up somewhere nearby and started to come nearer and one of the attackers called out to Skipper and his crew. “Give it up. Once our tank is over you‘re all dead men. If you toss out the guns we’ll let you join up.”
Skipper laughed. “Yeah right. I stopped believing in Santa when he didn’t deliver the blonde.” He reached round a doorway, firing towards the voice, then spoke in a quieter voice. “Be ready. The twats will come across behind that motor, whatever it is.”
The two groups exchanged occasional shots as the motor came nearer. “It’s a transit van, Skipper, with a steel plate across the front.”
“That’ll float well.” A ripple of laughter sounded in the warehouse. “Smiler, bounce a couple of shots off it to encourage the twats.” The shots clanged off the steel, to be greeted by cheers from the advancing gangsters. “Remember, when you hear the fucker go, charge. They’ll all be looking that way so don’t shout until we’re in close.”
“It’s on the bridge, Skipper.” The youth known as Smiler watched as the van moved further onto the bridge. “It’s halfway now, are you sure…?” The question wasn’t completed since just then a screech of tortured metal split the air. Alarmed shouts followed and the van revved desperately but too late. A crackle of shattering timber and more tortured screeches were followed by screams as the bridge, the van, and a score of attackers dropped into the canal.
“Now.” Skipper spoke quietly, almost drowned out by the crash, splash and the screams, and the other seven defenders surged forward out of cover in silence. The attackers on the near bank of the canal were looking back towards the bridge, some even half-rising from cover. By the time they realised they were under attack the eight men had closed in, shooting or chopping them down.
“Get down!” Smiler dived behind a partially destroyed wall as a flurry of shots rang out from the other bank.
“Fuck!” One of Skipper’s men dropped his machete to work on another youth’s bullet wound. “I think he’ll live.”
“Stay in cover and don’t take chances lads. Any survivors that climb up this side, let them crawl right out onto the flat so we can strip the bodies after shooting them.” Skipper laughed. “Smiler, you’ve got fancy sights on that pistol. Shoot any fucker climbing up the other side. We’ll drag the canal for the weapons later.”
A young man with a shock of reddish-blond curls peeked around a low wall, ducking back smartish as shots rang out. “Will they let us?”
“Too true they will Goldie. They just lost at least thirty men with their weapons, and their boss. It’ll take them a week to sort out who runs the gang, even if they can hold what they’ve got.” Skipper sighed. “That’s it lads. There’s only four ways across the canals and we’ve raised both bridges and opened the locks for now. We’ll get everyone properly organised as an enclave and ask for a coupon bus, then negotiate with the neighbours.”
“Good, once it quietens down I can get in some fishing.” The laughter at that temporarily drowned out the cries of the wounded and those struggling to stay afloat.
Skipper smiled broader than most. He hadn’t told his gang the whole plan, not until it was possible. If his men put nets across the exits from their area, and farmed the fish, this enclave would have a surplus of good protein for his mum and his sister’s kids, all the kids. They could even sell some to the neighbours for extras, because buying would be easier for the gangs than trying to fight their way across the water. He headed back towards the habitable houses at the centre, making plans to fortify one of the steel houseboats as a trading vessel.
* * *
Five miles northwest, beyond a motorway patrolled by army vehicles, the enclave known as Precinct Nineteen were on the move. The man wearing a patched policeman’s uniform crouched in the dusk and looked back at the line of silent vehicles. In a low voice he spoke to a young woman wearing a crash helmet and a stab vest. “Go back along the line and remind them to turn on the sidelights after the engine starts, with no revving until we start moving please, Sue. We don’t want any noise yet so keep low, and move slowly and quietly.”
“I will grandad. I still don’t like it, we were safe here.”
The grey-haired man sighed. “Not really safe lass because the gangs are wearing us down. We have to keep going to the marts but we’re losing men and using up ammunition every trip. We need space to grow food, and although the flats make a strong fortress to live in they haven’t got gardens.” He reached out a hand to squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. “At the beginning we didn’t think this would last so we chose strong position. Now the majority agree this is our best chance for the long term. Remind everyone about the lights and noise on the way back, and make sure you are on that bus.”
“Sorry grandad. Don’t worry, everyone knows what to do.” She giggled nervously. “Should I call you sergeant or 33 tonight?”
“Scat, cheeky. In four minutes 15, or sergeant Koos to you, starts clearing the way. Off you go.” He raised his G36 police automatic, using the night sights to inspect the streets ahead. No reaction from the neighbours yet but he didn’t relax.
The young woman, girl really, took off her helmet and kissed him on the cheek before putting it back on. “Good luck grandad.” She ran off back down the road, keeping low and stopping at each vehicle. The sergeant smiled, then settled his eye to the sights again.
* * *
Nearly four miles ahead another police sergeant also inspected the streets ahead through his night sights, ex-police really because he hadn’t been paid since the Army sealed the bypass nearly two years ago. He watched as other ex-policemen in partial uniform, bearing a mix of modern and ancient weapons, slowly and quietly leapfrogged past each other to close on their objectives. In an upper window of one small block of flats a figure showed, leaning forward to check on a glimpse of movement. The sergeant stroked the rifle’s trigger and murmured “15” into his radio, to let his men know who had fired. With less than fifty men left the sergeants used the last two digits of their old police numbers, and the constables used three digits.
The silenced rifle wasn’t silent of course; it just didn’t sound like a shot. Other heads came up in the buildings ahead as sentries tried to identify the sound. More muffled noises from other silenced weapons cut the first three down but one called out as he fell. The loud crack of a pistol shot echoed in the night and more shots followed as voices were raised in alarm. The men creeping forward accelerated, still silently except when their weapons had a target and still using single shots.
“Look out, someone’s after the women!” The sergeant cursed at the chorus of voices answering the gangster because they came from off to his left, not in the two buildings his men were now storming. What information he’d had indicated the gang members slept in these flats.
Sarge spoke quietly into his microphone. “We’ve got flankers. Five-one-eight and 277, hold fire. Let them in between us and the objective.” At least the gangs around here didn’t monitor the bands his tactical radios used. Nobody listened to the police radios these days, not since the police left the city, a small mercy that wouldn’t last once the locals saw the uniforms. Ahead the ex-policemen were already entering their target buildings. Gunfire and screams, interspersed with the loud cracks of flash-bangs, drowned out any more noise from the flank. The gunfire reached a crescendo then began to die back so there had been fighters in there, but not as many as expected.
Morse code flashed from an upper window and the sergeant replied on the radio. “Stand by 613.” Shortly after a light flashed code from a top flat in the other building. “Stand by 229. Caution, gate-crashers coming left of backstop. Single shots. Mousetrap.” Sarge saw the armed figures running up the street from his left. He switched channels. “Fifteen to 33, wagons roll.” He switched back and hunched down deeper into cover.
* * *
Back at the convoy the older sergeant, 33, hobbled to the bus doors where willing hands pulled him inside. He closed the door as quietly as possible and pointed the barrel of his weapon out of the open window. “Start up. Wait until the last set of sidelights come on then don’t mess about.” He smiled, unseen in the dark. “It’s only four miles and there’s nobody out there with a speed camera.” The engine caught, then grumbled quietly. In the wing mirror sarge watched the string of sidelights light up off around the gentle bend behind him as the convoy came alive. His radio clicked three times, a message from the last vehicle because he couldn’t see them all from here. “Go!”
The bus engine roared, drowning out any other noise, and the steel-plated behemoth lumbered into motion. The plate fastened to the outside showed the repairs and scars from convoys to the Mart, because none of the gangs around here were willing to give Precinct Nineteen safe passage. Inside the single-decker bus twenty crossbows, bows, pistols or in some cases catapults aimed outwards, many with more determination than skill. Another, almost identical bus brought up the rear of the convoy. A convoy containing every man, woman, child, pet and remotely useful item from their old home.
Or everyone except their forty-three most experienced fighters, the experts with the best weapons, who were four miles away making a hole for the exodus. Though first this convoy had to smash clean through The Quarrymen’s territory before the gang could react. A man reared up from behind a wall, firing at the oncoming vehicles until sarge put a short burst into him. “Faster. Lights.” The bus headlights lit up the dark streets ahead, and sarge snapped a short burst at another man diving into cover.
* * *
Four miles away, the running gangsters slowed as shots from the captured buildings cut down the first of them to arrive. “You bastards are dead! You’re trapped now you stupid shits.” The speaker waved his arms to the gangsters following. “Spread out, take cover.” The men used the houses and garden walls to spread out across the approaches to their target. “Give it up and we’ll let you go.”
“No thanks, we’re settled in now and there’s all sorts of home comforts.” The hidden sergeant smiled because David, 613, just couldn’t resist tweaking gangsters, but this time the reply might just pull the suckers in.
“You leave our bloody women alone!” The speaker lowered his voice. “I want that bastard alive. I’m gonna make him eat his own nuts. There can’t be many if they got here without being seen so when I say, open up and rush them.”
“But Currie, what about all the women?” The sergeant tensed at the voices in the street below. Damn. Now he knew why the incomplete info had indicated the gangsters slept here. These buildings were where they kept the women. The gangster below kept speaking when his boss didn’t reply. “We might kill some of them.”
“Then we’ll get some new ones. Now shut it. Everyone creep forward a bit. As soon as we’re near enough, rush them.” The gangsters, over fifty of them, began to creep forward though many were muttering unhappily about killing their women. Single shots from the flats began to drop the less cautious, bunching the men behind the best cover.
Sarge watched, but he also listened. As soon as he thought he heard approaching engines, the ex-policeman put down the rifle before picking up a pipe bomb and his lighter. He spoke into his radio. “Five-one-eight, 227. Three count then boom. Use auto to break them.” He paused, giving the men time to prepare their own pipe bombs. “Three, two, one, boom.” Sarge lit his bomb before throwing it into the nearest clump of gangsters. He picked up his G36 automatic, ducking and waiting for the explosions and hopefully the screaming. He kept down until after the third explosion because these things threw bits of metal erratically and sometimes a long way. Sergeant Koos came up even while the echoes were still dying and, using his night sights and short bursts, started killing as many of Currie’s gangsters as possible.
Ahead the men in the flats shot targets of opportunity. Meanwhile 518 and 227 combined their firepower with sergeant Koos, using their automatics to break the attackers beyond recovery for tonight at least. By the time the last surviving gangster had run into the night Sarge could clearly hear approaching engines. “Six-one-three, take two squads ahead to make sure the road is open. Once you’ve taken the school send 261 to take the canal bank and bridge to the west. Two-two-nine? How many women?”
“Two-two-nine. Eleven in this place, I’ll check the rest. What do we do with them?”
“Tell them who we are and explain they can come with us or wait for their boyfriends, because we won’t be staying.” Sometimes the gangster women were volunteers, and Precinct Nineteen wouldn’t take anyone against their will. “Hurry because we’ll want them on the bus. Tell them to grab any gear, sharpish. Send men to finish the wounded gangsters and search the bodies” The engines were coming nearer and 15 didn’t want to stop the vehicles for long. “Five-one-eight, come here and watch for any of the runners coming back, 288 watch the back door once the convoy arrives. Use your rifles to pin down anybody trying to interfere before we’re done.” He broke off at a crackle of gunfire from the direction of the engines and switched channels. “Fifteen here. Convoy? Thirty-three?”
A familiar voice reassured him. “Thirty-three. We just broke through the border into Currie’s territory. Only a few sentries and the survivors are running. The Quarrymen are still waking up behind us so we’re clear. With you in two minutes max. Out.”
“We have extra passengers if a bus pulls up. Two-six-one and 613 are clearing the roa
d ahead but we’ve broken them here. Keep the hammer down and we’ll be gone before anyone gets organised. Out.”
Javed, 229, led most of his squad forward from the captured flats. The men used pistols or machetes to finish the wounded gangsters and stripped the bodies of weapons, ammunition, coupons and good clothing. The convoy roared up and through, the rear bus and a transit van pausing briefly. Nine women hurried out of the flats and into the bus, all carrying bags. Within minutes the remaining policemen climbed into the bus or van and the marksmen and sergeant ran to join them. The two vehicles set off and quickly caught up to the rear of the convoy.
* * *
As the front of the convoy reached a larger road, a T junction, Sarge climbed out and limped across the street. The bus and fifteen vans and cars swung left while other vans turned right, followed by the second bus. The rest, including the van with sergeant Koos, drove straight across the junction into the ruins of a school as David, 613, waved them in. He beckoned and both sergeants moved to meet him, and the four strangers. “These are the new neighbours, sarge.”
One of the strangers looked back across the road as the last of the convoy came into the school grounds and men spread out in defensive positions. “How many of Currie’s gangsters are following you?”
The older sergeant limped over and put out his hand. “Hello Abby, pleased to finally meet you. Nobody will follow tonight. We’ve just added up the scores and we killed up to forty and wounded a lot of others on the way through. How many fighters did Currie have?”
The stranger, a middle-aged woman, looked shocked. Then she looked at the automatic weapons and a savage smile split her face. “That’s got to be a half out of action, at least. With those guns you could go back and finish Currie. We’ll come and help?”
“No thanks, street fighting will eat up men and ammunition and we don’t want a lot of ruined housing anyway. Tonight has already cost us four good men, and at least a dozen wounded. The vultures will be gathering behind us tomorrow. By the time Currie has either gone under or fought the other gangs off we’ll have firm control of what we want, the arable land. The deal is still on?”